


Author Unknown

by Ratling96



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2020-07-23 14:00:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20009452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ratling96/pseuds/Ratling96
Summary: Aziraphale finds out that Crowley has some published novels.





	1. Chapter 1

Aziraphale was laying on the couch in the back room of his bookshop, an arm tossed over his eyes to keep out the light. He wasn’t visibly shaking, but that was due only to the fact that he had temporarily turned off all unnecessary bodily functions (currently his breathing, and adrenaline, and heartbeat).

Crowley was up front. Aziraphale could hear the man laughing to himself while cleaning up the mug of cocoa Aziraphale dropped. The mug itself had already been miracle’d back together, judging from the cinnamon-and-burnt-sugar smell in the air (a smell that always accompanied Crowley’s magic). Crowley was doing a deep clean miracle on the wood floors, which wasn’t quite instantaneous. It took even longer, apparently, when the instigator of the miracle keeps losing focus because they are too busy trying to keep the volume of their amusement at a minimum. 

After another minute there was a knock at the open door. Aziraphale hung his head over the side of the couch, seeing an upside-down Crowley standing in the doorway. After righting himself, he looked a Crowley again and straightened his shirt. Crowley offered up a half smile and spoke softly from the doorway.

“Do you wanna talk about it, Angel?”

Aziraphale hesitated. What was he supposed to even  _ say _ ? How was he supposed to explain to Crowley that he had loved several of the first works individually, and then, over time, he had noticed that the writing was really much too similar, that it all sounded like a continuation of a one-sided conversation? Even though all the books had different authors, supposedly, he knew that humans took pen names. He knew that it was possible all the books were written by the same person. Was it likely? Well, perhaps not. But the voice was so consistent, he was almost certain that the 6 different names were all the same author. So much so that he had (somewhat accidentally) dragged several humans into the theory over the years, and those people had dragged others in, until the whole thing became a rather convoluted conspiracy. 

But, of course, that wasn’t the hard thing to explain. The thing that he didn’t have the words for… well, that was much more emotional and much less about the mystery, the puzzle to solve. Aziraphale had spent so much time reading and rereading these stories that he had all but fallen for the mystery author. Several decades had been spent on determined searching, and sorting through small authors, and loving every word on every page. Three of the pen names had been used to write short stories, two had written full length novels (one-off stories that ended in satisfying ways that invited readers to start again from the beginning). One pen name had written a single book that consisted of twenty-something poems of varying length and gravity. This book was published last, several years after all the others. Long enough that Aziraphale had doubts about it being his mystery author, especially given the shift from fiction to poetry.

But that was the book that really stole Aziraphale’s heart. That was the book that had him aching to meet someone that (he had assumed) was a perfect stranger. That was the book that made him desperately want to be the other half of whatever one-sided conversation the author was having. 

Coincidentally (or perhaps not), that was the book that Crowley had picked up just a few minutes ago. That was the book Crowley had flipped through, smiling fondly as if looking at a memory, then glanced at the angel and said (with a casual air that would have taken Aziraphale’s breath, if the words themselves hadn’t) that  _ that particular book _ was the one that he was most proud of, out of the whole set. 

Aziraphale hadn’t realized he had dropped his cocoa until he heard the mug hit the floor. Even then, he had ignored it. His mind was blank, and any attempts to find something to say had been met with a ringing in his ears. Aziraphale decided the best course of action was to turn around, walk to the back room, and lie down for several minutes. He needed to be alone until his brain could process this new information.

Sitting upright on the couch, looking at Crowley leaning against the doorway, Aziraphale took a deep breath. This triggered his heart to restart, and he had to sit silently for a few more seconds until the subsequent headrush had passed. Crowley waited patiently, running his thumb over the pages of the book he was still holding. The soft fluttering sound filled the silence, gentle but insistent. 

Aziraphale took another deep breath, then looked up at Crowley. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. Finding the right words felt vital in this moment. He opened his mouth again and let his words out slowly. 

"I was... very invested in figuring out who my mystery author was. I had reached out to several humans, trying to piece together the various works. I thought I was close to figuring it out... and then Adam was born. Well, Warlock was born. We, you and I, got so caught up in trying to raise the child properly. I had let go of the mystery for the time being. And, well… I never actually solved it. When I got back to the bookshop, Adam had put everything back together, plus a few changes. Your books were one of the changes. All shelved by date, the red herrings taken out of the group." 

Crowley nodded, then motioned vaguely towards the couch. Aziraphale nodded and pet the couch cushion next to him. Crowley walked over and sat down, still thumbing through the book, his knee bumping up against Aziraphale's leg. 

"Crowley... why didn't you tell me that you were a writer?"

Crowley shifted nervously, dragging his hand through his hair and slouching back, only to sit forward again, elbows leaning on his knees. His knee stayed firmly connected to Aziraphale’s leg despite the fidgeting, which Aziraphale was grateful for. Any movement away would have felt like rejection. 

“I didn’t mention it to you because I didn’t want you looking for books just because they were mine. I wanted you to find them yourself, if you found them at all.”

Aziraphale just raised his eyebrows quizzically and waited for further explanation. 

“Angel, I.. well I wrote those stories… for you. Well, not  _ for _ you, exactly, I suppose. I wrote them for myself, but… I wrote when I wanted to talk to you.” Crowley glanced at Aziraphale, who was holding his breath again. Panic rose in Crowley’s throat. He began to speak faster, trying to rush through his explanation.

“We had made the arrangement, but for the most part we stayed away from each other, you know that. And I dunno, I guess I needed something to do between temptations, especially when our paths didn’t overlap. So I started writing, making up stories about the humans around me, mostly. And I guess I sort of enjoyed it. Felt a little like Creation. So I kept going, but with new people. People that didn’t exist around me. And then I thought to myself that you would like the stories, so I started writing stories that I thought you would enjoy, maybe over tea or with some wine. I got them published so that maybe you would find them, but I didn’t want you to get them just because my name was on the cover. I wanted you to like the stories for themselves. And, really, I know how you are about collecting books. I thought you might like the challenge of the unknown author. I figured if you picked up more than one pen name, it wouldn’t be long until you found the puzzle. And then I saw you again when you brought me the holy water, and by then I was just starting the poetry book, and, well, I guess  _ that one _ really wasn’t so much just wanting to talk to you, not after…” 

Crowley couldn’t finish the sentence. The memory of that conversation burned in his chest.  _ “You go too fast for me Crowley” _ . His hands were talons curled around his knees. He had folded in on himself, moved just slightly away from Aziraphale. He wanted to stand up and walk away, but just as he was about to, Aziraphale put his hand on Crowley’s arm, just shy of his hand. 

“I always felt like those stories… were a conversation. One that I desperately wanted to be a part of...” When Crowley looked up, Aziraphale was already watching him, eyes soft but searching. “And the poetry book, well. That was just… lovely.” 

Aziraphale reached across Crowley and took the book from where it was sitting on the table. He opened the cover and handed it to Crowley. Crowley glanced down and a barking laugh escaped his throat. He had forgotten the dedication page. Crowley cleared his throat, then read the page aloud:

“To all the small bookshops, tucked away in unexpected places. And to the angels that keep them open” 

Aziraphale chuckled and nodded. “Really, that was rather pointed. If I had  _ known _ , I would have thought it was a bit much.” Crowley smiled and made an agreeable noise, then flipped to another page and began to read once more, his voice soft and low. 

“Some would say you deserve the world, 

But the world can be a cruel and careless place. 

Some would say you deserve the stars, 

But the stars are distant and cold.

The fires they burn would never keep you warm. 

Here is what you deserve, my dear:

A gentle heart, an open hand, a safe place to call home.

Most importantly: All the love you could ever hold.”

As Crowley closed the book, silence settled in. Aziraphale had slid his hand down Crowley’s wrist to cover the demon’s hand with his own. After a moment, he let himself lean sideways until his head was resting on Crowley’s shoulder. There would be more discussion, of course. They would, at some point, have to clearly state… whatever this was. But, currently, all Aziraphale wanted was to close his eyes and listen to Crowley’s voice. 

“Will you read me more, Crowley dear?” 

“Of course, Angel.”

As Crowley opened the book again, he turned his head to kiss Aziraphale on the forehead. 


	2. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale learns that various things he cherishes are connected in an unexpected way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First chapter is the Original Version. I decided to go back and rework the story. So, starting at chap 2 is the new version.

Aziraphale was laying on the couch in the backroom of his bookshop, an arm tossed over his eyes to keep out the light. He wasn’t visibly shaking, but that was due only to the fact that he had temporarily turned off all unnecessary bodily functions to avoid having to deal with such base reactions while also processing his thoughts. He was not breathing and had also paused his heart, and digestive system. The last thing he needed at the moment was a stomach ache. 

Crowley was up at the front of the shop. Aziraphale could hear the demon chuckling to himself while cleaning up the mug of cocoa Aziraphale dropped. The mug itself had already been miracled back together, judging from the cinnamon-and-burnt-sugar smell in the air (a smell that always accompanied Crowley’s magic). Crowley was doing a deep clean miracle on the wood floors, which wasn’t quite instantaneous. It takes even longer, apparently, when the instigator of the miracle keeps losing focus because they are too busy trying to keep the volume of their amusement at a minimum. 

After another minute there was a knock on the open doorway. Aziraphale hung his head over the side of the couch, seeing an upside-down Crowley standing in the doorway. After righting himself, he looked at Crowley again and straightened his shirt. Crowley offered up a half-smile and spoke softly from the doorway.

“Do you wanna talk about it, Angel?”

Aziraphale hesitated. What was he supposed to say? How was he supposed to explain to Crowley that his world had broken apart and rebuilt itself over the last few minutes? He looked at the mischievous smirk Crowley was failing to hide and couldn’t decide if he was amused by or angry with the demon. 

Aziraphale had loved the first works individually. They were always books he found by happy coincidence, never major names in the time they were written. The books were just good enough to get just enough attention to fall into his lap without being well known. 

Eventually, he noticed that the writing style seemed to carry across the books. Even though all the books had different authors, supposedly, he knew that humans took pen names. So it was possible all the books were written by the same person. Was it likely? Well, perhaps not, but the voice was impeccably consistent. The books had been published in a generally reasonable time frame, as well. The first 5 books had been published sporadically over the course of 20 years. The final book had been published 9 years after the last of the 5. 

It was an outlier, but Aziraphale was almost certain that the 6 different names were all the same author. This certainty had led him to (somewhat accidentally) drag several humans into the theory over the years, and those people had pulled others in until the whole thing became a rather convoluted conspiracy. The mystery of the Unknown Author was something of an underground craze. It wasn’t unheard of for people to wander into Aziraphale’s shop specifically to talk to him about the books. Crowley had stopped by on several occasions while Aziraphale had been trading theories with a human who had also found the connection. There were times where Crowley would sit and enjoy a mug of tea or cocoa while Aziraphale talked about his latest theories. 

To have that mystery so casually brushed aside was incredibly heartbreaking, even if the solution to the mystery was so much closer than he ever would have dreamt. 

But that wasn’t the difficult thing to explain. Crowley understood the drive for puzzles, for things to search for. He understood the importance of shallow purpose, of devoting your time to something ultimately nonconsequential, especially for beings that lived… well, forever. As much time as Crowley spent causing chaos, Aziraphale knew he had other hobbies. 

The thing that Aziraphale wasn’t sure he could explain was much more emotional and much less about the mystery, less about the puzzle to solve. Aziraphale had spent so much time reading and rereading these stories that he had all but fallen for the mystery author. The books, all together, read like one side of a conversation that he wanted so very much to be a part of. Reading those books made him feel much less alone in a world where he couldn’t always be part of the happenings around him. 

Several decades had been spent on determined searching, sorting through small authors and loving every word on every page. Three of the pen names had been used to write collections of short stories, two had written full-length novels (one-off stories that ended in satisfying ways that invited readers to start again from the beginning). One pen name had written a single book that consisted of twenty-something poems of varying length and gravity. This book was the outlier. It had been so long in coming after the first 5 that Aziraphale had doubts about it being his mystery author, especially given the shift from fiction to poetry. But that was the book that stole Aziraphale’s heart. It was the one he really wanted, needed, to be from his mystery author. It was the thing that had him aching to meet someone he had assumed was a perfect stranger.

Coincidentally (or perhaps not), that was the book that Crowley had picked up just a few minutes ago. That was the book Crowley had flipped through while smiling fondly as if looking at a memory. He barely even glanced up while claiming that particular book as the one that he was most proud of, out of the whole set. He said it so casually that Aziraphale had a significant delay between hearing and understanding the words. Once the message had reached his brain, however, there was no denying his reaction.

Aziraphale hadn’t realized he had dropped his cocoa until he heard the mug hit the floor. Even then, he had ignored it. His mind was mostly blank and any attempts to find something to say had been met with a ringing in his ears. He decided the best course of action was to turn around, walk to the room behind the shop that he kept as a sitting parlor, and lie down for several minutes. He needed to be alone until his brain could process this new information.

Sitting upright on the couch, looking at Crowley leaning against the doorway, Aziraphale took a deep breath. This triggered his heart to restart, and he had to sit silently for a few more seconds until the subsequent headrush had passed. Crowley stood patiently, running his thumb over the pages of the book he was still holding. The soft fluttering sound filled the silence, gentle but insistent. 

Aziraphale took another deep breath, then looked up at Crowley. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. Finding the right words felt vital. Opening his mouth again, he let his words out slowly, almost tasting them as they floated across his tongue, ensuring things came out in the proper fashion. 

"I was... very invested in figuring out who my mystery author was. I had reached out to several humans, trying to piece together the various works. I thought I was close to figuring it out... and then Adam was born. Well, Warlock was born. We, you and I, got so caught up in trying to raise the child properly that I had less and less time for the mystery. And, well… I never actually solved it. When I got back to the bookshop, Adam had put everything back together, plus a few changes. Those books, your books, were one of the changes. All shelved by date, the red herrings taken out of the group. I was actually farther from pinning it down than I thought I had been." Here Aziraphale laughed softly before sighing. 

Crowley hummed in understanding, then motioned vaguely towards the couch. Aziraphale nodded his consent and pet the couch cushion next to him. Crowley walked over and sat down, still thumbing through the book, his knee bumping up against Aziraphale's leg. 

"Crowley... why didn't you tell me that you were a writer?"

Crowley shifted nervously, dragging his hand through his hair and slouching back, only to sit forward again, elbows leaning on his knees. His knee stayed firmly connected to Aziraphale’s leg despite the fidgeting, which Aziraphale was grateful for. Any movement away would have felt like rejection. 

“I didn’t mention it to you because I didn’t want you looking for books just because they were mine. I wanted you to find them yourself; if you found them at all.”

Aziraphale just raised his eyebrows quizzically and waited for further explanation. 

“Angel I.. well, I wrote those stories… for you. Well, not for you, exactly, I suppose. I wrote them for myself, but… I wrote when I wanted to talk to you,” Crowley glanced at Aziraphale, who was holding his breath again. The stunned expression on the angel’s face had panic rising in Crowley’s throat. He began to speak faster, trying to rush through his explanation. “We had made the arrangement, but for the most part we stayed away from each other, you know that...and I don’t know, I guess I needed something to do between temptations. Especially when our paths didn’t overlap. So I started writing, making up stories about the humans around me, mostly. And I guess I sort of enjoyed it. Felt a little like Creation.” At the mention of Creating things, Crowley’s hands twitched. It was an ache in his bones, a longing he could never really satisfy since his Fall. 

”I kept going when I realized I liked it beyond just filling time. I started writing about people that didn’t already exist around me. Then I thought to myself that you might like the stories, what with the bookshop and all. So I started writing stories that I thought you would enjoy, maybe over tea or with some wine. Eventually, I got the first ones published so that maybe you would find them, but I didn’t want you to get them just because my name was on the cover. I wanted you to like the stories for themselves.” Here Crowley paused, thumbs fluttering the pages of his book again in silence. Aziraphale stayed quiet and eventually, Crowley started again. 

“Besides, I know how you are about collecting books. I thought you might like the challenge of the unknown author. I figured if you picked up more than one pen name, it wouldn’t be long until you found the puzzle. So after the first two did well enough that I saw them pop up in shops, I kept going. I spaced out stories so that you would have to hunt for them, so you would have to wait, and search for the connections.”

“And then…” Crowley sighed and fidgeted again, but continued on; “When you brought me the holy water, I was just starting to play with the idea of a poetry book, thinking it would be a good way to throw you off. Well, I guess that one turned into more than the puzzle, more than wanting to talk to you.”

  
“More? In what way?” 

Crowley made a sound in the back of his throat that made Aziraphale’s chest ache. He spoke softly, voice cracking. 

“More in the way that I have always loved you. More in that, every line of that book is a promise that I love you, have always loved you, and will always love you.” As Crowley spoke, he stood up “Sorry angel, but I should go.” 

Before Aziraphale could speak, Crowley was gone. The ever-familiar smell of cinnamon and sugar sat with the lonely angel. It was, he decided, a sad replacement for the previous company. 


End file.
